The stars of Lylat
by cornwallace
Summary: Hopes and dreams don't mean too terribly much in the ugly face of entropy.
1. sickness

_ _ _ _ _  
Sickness 

* * *

You can't apply context to everything. Sometimes light is just the cause of a shadow, despite its good intentions.  
Phone calls to a memory, a ghost. A message left that may as well be a confession to a tombstone. What's dead is dead and what's dying can be witnessed or ignored, accelerated or delayed. But such a fate cannot be denied.

Hours earlier, the bright and sterile hospital room to contrast the stark silhouette of Fox standing in front of the payphone under the streetlight.  
The hiss of the oxygen tank. Peppy's tired eyes looking up at Fox. Just barely darting from left to right, as if reading the page of a novel.  
Distant recognition.

"James." His voice weak. Barely above a whisper. Licking his lips, his tongue gets briefly hung up on his front teeth.  
Fox studying his every action with a morbid fascination. The details of dying distracting him just enough from the big picture to handle this situation.

A brief moment of pause with the weight of an hour behind it. Peppy's eyes widen slightly, as if he's beginning to panic.

"J-"  
Yeah, Pep?  
A sigh - more of a wheeze - of relief from Peppy. "James, I- ... It's been so long. I've missed you."  
I've missed you, too, Pep.  
"I'm sorry, James. I've let you down. I let yer boy dow-" More wheezing. Violent coughing. "I promised I had yer back and I watched you die. I promised I'd take care of yer boy and I... I don't remember the last time I seen his face. I..."

Fox watches the tears well up in the old man's eyes for a moment. He imagines what watching his dad go through this sort of suffering would be like, were his dad still alive to do so.  
Small pieces of him die, but go unnoticed. He clenches his fists and fights back tears, like he's always done.

"Fox is okay, Pep," Fox lies. "And so am I. You may have forgotten the debt you're owed by myself, my son and the Planetary Nation of Corneria, but we have not."  
Peppy wheezes as his eyes flutter closed. "I don't remember the last time I seen his face, James. I remember the last time I seen yers..."  
"It's okay, Pep. Get some rest."  
He laughs and hacks out some phegm onto himself without noticing. "Ah, Pep. That's what yer son used to call me."  
"I know."  
"Where is he?"  
"He'll be here soon. Get some rest."  
"I wanned to help, y'hear? I wanned to help better than I could."  
"I know."  
"You don't have to lie to me, James. I know I let you and yer kid down. I let everyone down if y'include m'self." Peppy tries to open his eyes and keep them open but he fails miserably. "I didn't do right by nobody..."  
"Nobody can ask you to handle the responsibility of life and death of others on your own, Peppy. Not when you got yourself to deal with. I know that now. You look after yourself now, you hear?"

Peppy doesn't respond. He's asleep.

"Goodnight, Peppy. I'll see you in the morning," Fox lies.

He relives this moment as he hangs up the phone in the booth. Raindrops glistening off the cold glass under the soft orange glow of the streetlight.  
A simple request with not so simple consequences fallen on an understandably dead spirit.

Fox knows the score but he desperately hopes he's wrong.

The needle on his speedometer climbing quickly. Lights passing shadows over his head. Leaving him in darkness with nothing but the lights of the console.  
Trembling fingers turn the knob near the steering wheel to turn those off as well.  
Window rolled down. The motor rumbles over the howling wind in the void Fox feels truly at home in. Part of him wishing he would just crash here and now, when he can't see anything.

Reality harshly welcomes him back when he flicks the knob again and reveals the mailbox he clips. Turning letters to Cornerians into letters to nobody as they dance through the air and into the void. Not killing him. Not even slowing him down, really.  
He swerves back onto the road. He's just made things a little worse for some of the people on this planet. He forces himself not to cry, never to cry. Hoping he can make things a little better. 

* * *

Sunlight spills in through Fox's wall of windows in his penthouse suite. His eyes flutter open, flutter closed.  
He hasn't been asleep - not really. He knows what day today is.

Recruitment. Today is the day he once again boards the Great Fox.  
He wonders how many days he has left, and more importantly, if he's had enough good ones to make his life worth living. Or if all was forever lost from the outset.


	2. half

_ _ _  
Half

* * *

Fox angrily shoves Slippy's hammer into his chest.  
Slippy's eyes are confused. He's hurt by Fox's expression alone.

"Falco won't be joining us today. I hope you're happy. Get your shit and suit up, we leave in ten."

"F-fox?! Wh-"

"I don't want to fucking hear it, okay? Get your shit. Suit up. If you aren't in your arwing and heading towards Venom in ten fucking minutes, you're fired. Do you understand that?"

"Y-yes sir."

"What in god's name did you think he'd use that for? Like he's some mechanic or something." Fox doesn't wait for an answer, he's already on his way down the hall. Blissfully unaware that mechanics don't use hammers, that's carpenters he's thinking of. "Fuck sake."

"Fox, I don't understand..."

He doesn't answer. He probably didn't even hear him. And if he did, he probably wasn't even listening.  
Slippy's never been able to communicate with Fox in such a way that made him feel like he wasn't worthless.  
It's not like it's much to ask for, is it? To be respected as a valuable member of the team?  
Slippy closes his eyes and shakes his head. A sly tear sneaks from the far corner of his eye and rolls down his smooth cheek.

No. Respect has to be earned, he tells himself again and again. Fox will treat you like an equal when you deserve it.  
When you earn it.

Slippy suits up and tries not to cry, but he does.  
He gets mad at himself, too, because mercenaries don't cry.

* * *

Fox guns another down and sends it spiraling into the waste. Smoke billowing from the ship's tailpipe, it explodes on impact. Quick spin right, rolling his ship to deflect oncoming attacks.  
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see an enemy on Slippy's tail. He finds himself infuriated. Sharp left turn. He pulls the controls down hard to lead him out of a nosedive and towards the drone behind Slippy but by the time he does, he catches Slippy pulling outwards, having led his antagonists into a trap.

"Slippy, you gotta be more careful! You hear me? I almost lost my shit because of you."

Slippy doesn't respond. He's dismantled his communicator. Fox angrily removes his headset and slams it into the console. He isn't sure why he did that.  
He takes the opposite route Slippy did. Hugging the ship's belly as his head hangs awkwardly to the right. Weaving and spinning around pillars spitting from the floor and fortress walls of Venom, designed to disorient and destroy even the most skillful of pilots. His brow furrows - sweat matting his fur to his skin.  
The cool air from the ventilation system sending shivers down his spine. Canons fire - taking out another short row of drowns on the offense. A breath escapes him.

He can't shake the look from Falco's eyes.  
Every time he closes his own, he sees that crazed look, that face of a man willing to sacrifice everything to avoid this war.  
Oncoming fire damages his shield. He cries out even though he doesn't want to and didn't mean to.  
More oncoming fire. Spin. Hard dodge. The great magnet, pulling him forward, despite the odds.

Yeah. Despite the odds.  
"Fuck you, Falco," he says, licking the sweat off his lips. "I'll see you in hell, you rotten piece of shit."

Hard left to dodge another outgrowing pillar, shots fired arbitrarily in front of him until his canons require a moment of cooling.  
Almost there. Almost.

He closes his eyes for just a second and his body involuntarily embraces the void. Darkness swells around him and for a moment he is still - still and calling out.

Krystal.  
Are you there?

She isn't. He forces his eyes open and he takes a hard left through the maze of walls on this planet.

Fox was never much one for religion. He never much believed in no god. But he did pray, pray to something, really anything, that his ship would make that hard bank left.  
And still the wall clipped his left wing hard.  
Canons firing arbitrarily as his ship spiraled downward. You could say in some capacity he dug his own grave. But really it was more like a hellish void he'd die in, he thought, as he pulled up hard on the controls. He knew it was no use, but the underside of his own tail sent him tumbling past his assigned grave, the tail of the ship catching the lip of the cage and sending him tumbling forward arbitrarily.

Before he loses consciousness, he thinks of Peppy and Krystal. Slippy and Falco.

The Star Fox Team.

* * *

Slippy isn't sure where he lost Fox but he knows he's alright. Fox is a natural born leader – a veteran soldier.  
No adversary could ever hope to crush him.

Before his very eyes, Slippy sees his opportunity to prove himself as a valuable member of the team. Hitting the field, he pulls up hard on the controls. His grip tightening, tension draining the color in his knuckles. Eyes wide, unaware of how tense he is.  
Spiraling upward, Slippy feels weightless. Tension relieves for a moment and he closes his eyes. A feather drifting along the cool breeze. Soft pink fluffy clouds at sunset. For a brief moment, he's not on Venom and the universe around him isn't under threat of being destroyed.  
He's somewhere else, a place from which he draws his power. A place where he truly feels like anything can be accomplished.

And with that, he opens his eyes and tips the controls forward. Turning the nose of the ship towards the opening into the heart of the beast planet Venom.  
And there, Andross is waiting.


	3. leave

_ _ _ _  
Leave

* * *

The grain alcohol that doesn't make it down Falco's gullet dribbles down the side of his beak and he wipes it away with the feathers on the forearm that holds the shot glass. He fills it again.  
He's wearing a white AV shirt, or wifebeater as they're crudely called in common vernacular. He sits at the grungy metal table just outside the kitchen and he knocks another one back.  
Left arm idly flipping a claw hammer over and over and over when it isn't pouring him a drink. That's the thing about drinking, Falco thinks to himself, he doesn't need much else but to stare at a table and contemplate.

He doesn't hear the approaching footsteps of Fox, or he does and they don't register or he just doesn't care.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm drinking, Einstein," he says, harshly breathing out after another hit. "What the fuck does it look like?"

"You do realize we're a mere hours away from an attack on Venom, yeah?"

"I sure do." He's pouring another one.

"And you're drinking grain alcohol. That's fucking incredible, Falco. You're a hero. A true star of Lylat."

"I like to think so."

"I'd like to think you're not a complete idiot but you keep taking that away from me."

"I really hate you, Fox."

"Oh, I bet. Being outclassed in basic common sense by somebody younger must be infuriating."

"Nawh, I'm not worried about that."

"Sure. It's just my face, then? Don't like foxes much, do you?"

"Nothing against foxes, either. You know there were some great foxes in Cornerean history? That James McCloud fella – I hear a lot of good things about him. Too bad he's too dead to raise his shitbag son into anything other than a shitbag."

Fox's fists tighten in response.

"You know what the difference between you and your dad is, Fox?"

"He's dead and I'm not?"

"For now, sure. But everybody talked about what a great man your dad was. You've simply deluded yourself into thinking you're a great man, while everyone around you talks about what a rotten asshole you are. That's why Krystal not only left you, but the team."

"You're over the line, Lombardi."

"That so?" A bitter laugh. He pours another drink and knocks it back. "The only one who doesn't hate you on this great ship of yours is Slippy, and god knows why that poor bastard tries so hard to earn your respect. He isn't going to get it. You don't respect a goddamn thing."

"How about I tear that stupid mouthy fucking beak of your face and jam it up your asshole, you schmuck?"

A laugh, this time more genuine. "How about it, huh? Mister 'what are you doing drinking we gotta save the system' over here. Well, you're not gonna have to worry about it either way."

Falco picks up the hammer in his left hand. Spins it around in his grip. Looks at it and looks at Fox, his eyes widening. A sly grin across Falco's beak.

"How about it, big shot? The fate of the system is in our hands."

Fox is visibly nervous. "What the fuck are you doing with that hammer."

Falco casually pops a cigarette in his beak with his free hand, fishes out a zippo and lights it, closing his eyes as he inhales deep. He pockets the lighter after snapping it shut and places his newly freed hand flat on the surface of the table. His speech muffled as his beak opens just enough to talk through the lit cigarette. "Resigning."

Without so much as flinching he smashes the hammer as hard as he can several times into the back of his hand. His knuckles, the joints of his fingers. Smashing, bone splintering, skin stretching, tearing under the blunt force of it. He drops the bloody hammer on the table, almost throwing it to the side closest to Fox. He plucks the cigarette from his beak with his sound hand and exhales a plume of smoke.

"Holy hell, you're fucking insane."

"Mmm." He examines it. His hand is clearly broken. "Be awful hard to pilot an arwing one handed."

"You sick fuck."

"Yeah, maybe," he says, taking another drag off the cigarette and flicking it. "I'll be in medical. Then I'll be headed back to Corneria to enjoy what little life I have left to live. You enjoy your shitshow. One hell of an uphill battle for you – I won't feed your delusions any longer. I only feel sorry for Slippy. Poor fuck wouldn't listen to reason."

He gets up to walk off. Fox is fuming, shaking with anger.

"Yeah well we don't fucking need you, Falco! You're fucking useless anyway."

"Sure," he calls over his shoulder without looking back. "Bet that's what you told yourself about Krystal, too."


	4. alone

_ _ _ _  
Alone 

* * *

Inside Krystal's empty apartment, the phone rings. It's late. She's not asleep, but she's not inside. The answering machine beeps.  
"Uh, hey Krystal. It's Fox. I'm sorry for calling so late - I'm sorry for calling at all, really. I don't know. I just saw Peppy, he's not doing well. He thinks I'm my father, keeps calling me James. Keeps apologizing and I guess it got me thinking that he isn't the one who should be apologizing to anyone, really. We're setting course for Venom tomorrow, trying to sort this whole thing out. I'm not asking for you to come back, I know you won't. I wouldn't want you to feel obligated to do that even if you did. I just. I made a lot of mistakes. I took you for granted. I took everything for granted. I wish I could go back and change all that but time's arrow marches forward. You can't fix the past, no matter how sorry you are or how much regret you carry with you. I carry a lot, but I don't want you to feel sorry for me. Or anything like that. I guess I just wanted you to know that I am sorry and maybe to say goodbye. I don't know if I'll ever be back. I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry and I still-" * beep *  
And Fox's words are reduced to a blinking one on an answering machine.

Outside on the balcony, Krystal dabs her brush in white paint and dots it across the dark canvas as she looks up to the sky for reference.  
Intergalactic war looks like simple fireworks from down here, she thinks to herself, if you're close enough. Mostly it just looks like shooting stars blinking out of existence. There's something beautiful and tragic about all of it.


End file.
